


In Deep Trouble

by yekaterina



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 80s Houston, F/F, Roller Derby Dykes, bad girl katya and good christian girl trixie, good ol cheesy eighties nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-08 21:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekaterina/pseuds/yekaterina
Summary: Her helmet chin strap is unbuckled and the white pieces of plastic swing back and forth as she all of a sudden rises up from lacing her skates. What Katya didn’t notice under the parking lot’s lights, she is noticing under the roller rink's. The woman is taller than Katya. A good couple inches taller. If Katya didn’t have her own skates on, the woman would be even more so. It is both deeply infuriating and wildly thrilling.Doll-Parts takes a moment, squinting her eyes as she looks all over Katya’s face. The woman smiles and recognition shows in her sweet, big brown eyes and it is enough to heat up Katya’s neck.“You again,” She says with a smile. It is not unkind. “You trying to get in my head?”





	In Deep Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> this is the roller derby fic from last summer! it is one of my bigger projects and i'm happy to finally begin putting it out into the world. i'm experimenting with chapter length which is why i might be posting multiple within short periods of time, but i won't guarantee that will be the case for every update.
> 
> trixie's updated 80s roller girl look reignited the flame for this so @trixiemattel? i love your work

Her eyes are burning.

Katya is staring at the neon sign hanging up above her that wants so bad to fall down. Most nights, like this one, she shares the sentiment. The sign is a big, ugly, red white and blue rocket, blasting off the concrete wall.

She has hated it since the rocket first-ever blinked on in front of her eyes, forever tainting her memory of the building that the damn thing is attached to. Katya will hate it until they tear the place down. The re-emerging popularity of roller derby means that is unlikely to happen anytime soon; both a blessing and a curse.

The rocket’s efforts to fall are futile. All the duct tape connecting the metal frame to the sign’s mount keeps it locked in a weak sway. But still, it tries. The ever-present screaming-creaking is the audible reassurance of this fact. Katya admires the stubbornness, despite her hatred.

She can hear the sizzle of the rocket’s insides, but more so, she feels it. Feels the red-hot burning of the neon. The angry energy beating against the confines of glass tubing. She knows how it is to be held in too tight. Wanting to break free, no matter the cost. Wanting to explode.

Wanting to fall, like the goddamn rocket. The sign blinks in bursts, neon fading. Katya blinks in return. Dark spots swim in her vision and she squeezes her eyes shut. Someone’s pinky drags across her eyebrow, across the fresh gash that moves in a jagged pattern down her skin. Katya hisses around her cigarette.

“Who’d you fuck over this time?” The voice to her right is youthful compared to the husk of Katya’s and the sound cuts through her thoughts. She is reminded her friend and teammate Adore stands next to her outside of the roller rink.

The duo’s respective smoke clouds intermingle in a dance, the cool night wind acting as a composer. They are both waiting for their team and their rivals to arrive. _Early bird gets the worm_ , as the saying goes. The worm is the rival team, who will have to endure merciless taunts as soon as they are spotted. Intimidation before a match does wonders for an ego.

“The Montgomery girls," Katya says. She maneuvers Adore’s hand away from her broken skin and rubs her eyes that are growing misty with the smoke.

“Damn, Zamo. They could’ve killed you," Adore sounds more impressed than concerned, but there is a slight waver in her voice balancing out the awe.

She is the one on the team most privy to the knowledge of Katya's pool hustling habits, among other schemes, and the trouble it gets her into some nights. Katya appreciates Adore's concern remaining casual. If she tried to get any more involved than she does, Katya wouldn't tell her anything.

“They could’ve tried," Katya replies. She spares Adore a smile that is more apparent in her eyes than it is on her lips because Adore knows she speaks with a fondness not easy to notice. Katya is grateful she doesn't need to make a show of it around her. She taps her cigarette with her finger and ashes trickle onto her motorcycle boots.

Adore mimics her then tosses hers down and stomps on it as if the building behind them might set ablaze if she didn’t. Katya smiles behind her palm and inhales smoke. The smile falls as she exhales.

“I’ve got to talk to you about something serious," Katya starts. Adore holds up a palm to stop her. Katya ignores it, presses forward towards her and on with her reprimanding. “Kid, you cannot keep doing this."

Her fingertips move to outline the splotches of purple on Adore’s cheek. Katya begins to say something about being Adore's _leader_  but is not able to finish her sentence as Adore is keeling over in laughter. Katya assumes it is because of her choice of words. She can’t ignore the humor herself. Seconds tick by before she chuckles, then wheezes, wisps of smoke slipping out between her teeth.

Katya being in a position meant to evoke formality and respect is too much. It doesn’t matter that she took on the mantle over a year ago and that the novelty should have worn off by now. She shoves Adore’s shoulder as a plea to get serious. The action is in vain. After a calming breath, while the laughter dies down, Katya pulls Adore into her side and rubs her hand up and down her bicep.

“I have to tell you to shape up. You’re killing your playing time, wasting away in the penalty box," Katya urges. Adore is the sibling Katya never had. No, Katya has siblings. Two sisters. She doesn’t like either of them. But it is alright, her family didn’t like her first.

“You like me being tough," Adore says. She buries her head under Katya’s jaw and wraps her arms around her stomach in a side hug.

“I do. I do,” Katya considers, throws out an open palm as a countering gesture. “I like you having a full set of teeth more. I’m sure I’m not alone.”

At that, Adore rises up and bites down on Katya’s ear, the one without a cross earring dangling from the lobe. Katya yells and drops her cigarette. She and Adore fall dumbly into the comfort of laughter again. They don’t bother to detangle at the sound of two cars pulling into the lot. Katya’s team, the Bad News Butches, are all piled into one pick-up truck. Tonight they’re riding in Bob’s.

Bob is none too happy about her turn as the driver, Katya knows this without a doubt. Bob has every reason to be pissed. Hauling the team out to a game is not an easy business and Katya knows the routine better than she would have ever liked to.

Someone runs late because their hair isn’t close enough to God. That same person is also changing into their clothes on the way and is throwing elbows in every which direction. Arguments between those in the car seats and those in the truck bed arise, with neither side listening to the begs of the driver to shut the hell up. Girls walking down the street always prompt a chorus of yells to stop the car. The radio plays anything but the good songs, and everyone sings along anyway… The list goes on.

All trials and tribulations Katya is glad to be free of courtesy of a used Pontiac Firebird, Katya’s new means of transportation these past few months. Lack of surplus seating is her saving grace. She doesn’t believe in God, but if he does exist, he must be a used car salesman in the greater Houston area.

Bob will have to drive the team around later tonight. Or rather, the early morning. Post-game bar hopping runs late without fail every time. Katya cringes. The Butches are already a handful sober, when they’re all drunk, it’s damn near tempting to off them.

Lots of girls would kill to play for the Butches. There would be no problem recruiting new skaters. Adore must be thinking the same thing, as she is clicking a finger gun at the girls one by one as they all file out, talking louder than they should be.

Bob has dead eyes that Katya could spot without the streetlights scattered around the lot. Katya nods her head, a silent expression of her condolences. Bob doesn’t return the gesture. Instead, she throws her duffle bag and roller skates over her shoulders and rolls her eyes.

Katya bites back a shit-eating grin. She juts her chin out at the car parking to the left of Bob’s, while she has her attention. Bob looks in that direction and Katya sees her lose the weight of having an entire roller derby team sardined in her truck for half an hour.

The team that the Butches are up against are crammed into the ugliest car Katya has ever seen. And she has had to park beside Adore’s Lada Riva every other Saturday. The car is a station wagon, Volvo 760. Slathered in a baby pink paint job.

 _Jesus Christ._ Her mind is racing, snide commentary building, ready to dam-burst whenever all the women inside the vehicle exit the atrocity. Fresh meat. The Butches haven’t played these sorry sons of bitches before. The team hopped from Austin to Houston in the last month. Katya has only heard of their undefeated record, mirroring the Butches' own.

She remembers running her finger over the list of names under Cuntry Jamboree Girls the week prior. She cannot wait to find out who is who.

Katya won’t admit it to any of them, but their chosen names are among her all-time favorites. Doll-Parts Parton being the best of the bunch. It is not meant to evoke fear like the typical name. It is just funny. She even laughs a little at the thought of it.

Katya’s name to other skaters is Zamo the Vampire. With the upcoming release of that ridiculous The Lost Boys movie and her startling resemblance to said boys, her name has become an unintentional punchline. Her laugh plummets into a grunt.

Bob and company already surround the ugly wagon. The chorus of loud wolf-whistles are sure to be heard clear as day through the tinted windows. Katya is lost in the scene, smiling as she drinks in the hoots and hollers. The anticipation is killing her. Nobody has gotten out of the car yet.

Her team intimidating the opposing one this early on inspires a sense of pride and there is a twinge of forgiveness for the hell they put her through. Just a twinge.

Adore pats Katya’s stomach with the back of her hand, bringing Katya back into reality for the second time tonight. Adore makes a vague motion for her to take out more cigarettes from her jacket. Katya complies, restocks both their mouths and Adore lights each cigarette up.

Without warning, the driver’s side door of the pink car swings open. One of Katya’s teammates, Alaska, yells and lunges out of the way. Katya almost bites her cigarette in half when a woman — a _woman_ , in every sense of the word, dictionary definition, slides out of the driver’s side. An echo of Alaska’s frenzied movement surges through Katya and she leans harder into Adore.

“Would you look at her,” Katya says, quiet and breathless, to no one in particular.

The woman is dressed for the hot Texas summer. She has got on a yellow gingham button-up, half-buttoned, with the shirt-tails tied in a loose knot. The knot is threatening to come undone. Katya hopes it doesn’t. Her stomach looks so soft.

She gingerly shuts the car door and her breasts bounce. Katya is a safe distance to look on as greedily as she pleases, but she cannot shake the guilt of doing so. She doesn’t want to, either. Katya thinks of herself a gentlewoman. Her eyes leave the woman's chest in response, only to settle on her hips.

The daisy dukes she is wearing cuts into them, so that flesh protrudes over the waistband, and the acid-wash denim strains around her thighs. Her _thighs_. They rub together as she walks around the car, weaving through the Butches without hesitation. Katya’s teammates part for her like Moses and the Red Sea and Katya wonders if the woman is possessing them, putting a spell on the usually uncontrollable. She looks capable of doing so.

The rest of the Cuntry Jamboree Girls pour out of the wagon after her, understanding that it is safe to do so. Katya doesn’t notice any of them until one of them is blocking the woman. Katya frowns at the person obscuring her. She hopes the mind-numbing weed Adore smells strongly of, and by virtue of their closeness, is going to make Katya smell of, keeps Adore none the wiser of Katya’s racing heart beating against her body.

Katya soon realizes that is the least of her troubles. The Butches keep on whistling, ragging on every woman on the other team and Katya wants them to shut up. She is about to express as much when the woman laughs. Laughs as if she is in on the joke, as if she told it, turned it around so it is on Katya. It feels like it is.

The sing-song sound silences even the cicadas, and it ends with a shake of her head, her blonde curls whirling all around her. She pops open the trunk and starts out doling out duffel bags and skates to her team. They each take something from her and start towards the entrance.

Everyone but the woman walks past the Butches, and Katya and Adore, without so much a sideways glance. They operate like a well-oiled machine. It is easy to deduce that the woman is the captain. She has got them so well trained, the absolute opposite of Katya’s situation. Katya is jealous of everyone involved.

She is covering her mouth with her hand, breath hot against the leather of her fingerless glove. Katya means to say something, anything, to anybody, in an attempt to salvage her grace.

Adore beats her to the punch. “Fuck. Look at her ti—“

“Shh!” Katya snaps at her and disengages from the embrace. The woman shuts the trunk and jingles her keys, standing in place. She looks around at all the faces encircling her. She smiles at the Butches and is met with scoffs, disapproving looks. Katya means to stomp over there and tell them all to fuck off, but the smile on the woman's face doesn’t fade, just grows. Katya smiles too, in wonder.

She’s either a bimbo or doesn’t care. Both are appealing to Katya, in their own way. The woman heads back to the driver’s side door to lock the car, then she is walking towards the entrance, and subsequently, towards Katya, who pops the lapels of her jacket to smooth out the leather. Katya quickly sniffs her shoulder, her hair, to test if her earlier concern was correct.

It wasn’t, thank God. Adore is going to have to kick that habit. If not for her sake, then for Katya's. The haste turns out to be pointless, as the woman covers hardly any distance in the moments that pass. She is moving at her own leisure, a product of the high heeled cowboy boots she balances precariously on. It looks like she is moving in slow-motion. A delicious agony, how time chooses now to reject the laws set upon it.

Something glints around her stomach. Katya thinks she is sparkling and doesn’t question it until the streetlights hit the woman's tan skin just right. A belly chain hangs below her navel. The gold digs into her skin, like her shorts do to her legs. It is a sight, and Katya devours every inch. She is burning behind the ears.

The woman resembles her team in staring straight ahead, paying no mind to any of the eyes that are all on her. There is a brief internal struggle within Katya. She debates continuing to watch in silent awe or getting her attention. Katya considers, takes a drag of her cigarette, carefully, as it is crumpled from earlier. The latter wins.

From her arsenal of pick-up lines, ranging from suave to stupid, Katya comes up with nothing. Katya wiggles her fingers in a wave once the woman is in talking distance, a couple of feet away in front of her.

“Hey, pretty woman," Katya says. The woman is somehow even prettier than before, this close. At Katya’s voice, she turns her head and gives Katya a toothy grin. Her teeth are crooked in true country fashion and it makes Katya wishes her own weren't perfect and straight.

“Hey yourself," The woman says back. Katya opens her mouth to speak again when the woman keeps on with her slow strut. It is gonna send anyone within a mile radius to the hospital and she knows, Katya can tell by the way she moves. But her face says otherwise. Her smile is springtime, innocent and calm. Katya feels anything but.

The woman doesn't stop to say anything else. She walks right past Katya and through the double doors. Her ass in those daisy dukes has Katya thankful Adore is beside her to support her weakening knees.

“Fuck me." Katya mumbles. Her mouth hangs open and Adore is laughing like it is the funniest damn thing to ever happen. She clutches onto Katya’s side, giggling into her stomach.

Katya manages to disengage from her again only to let the rest of the crew take hold, loud voices filling the silence the woman left in her wake. Everyone is pushing and pulling their way through the double doors into the building. Katya’s head swims with the sudden influx of bright lights.

 

 

Katya is doing her pre-game stretching, one leg extended straight into the air. A couple of the girls on both teams are by the stands, all uniformed-up, chatting up the crowd of people here to watch the match.

She has no interest in the pleasantries. The primary demographic of these games consists of women around Katya's age and younger, a few older. For Katya, the screams and shouts got old real quick, reminding her too much of days past, crowds let down when she was younger, when she was skating on ice rather than on polished wood.

Katya lowers her leg to the floor and skates over to Fame sitting on one of the benches on the Butches' side of the rink, leaving the schmoozing of the younger skaters behind her. She doesn’t even look at her Fame as the woman says something. Katya can’t take her eyes off of the captain on the other side of the rink.

“Jesus Christ. Would you get a load of sugar tits over there?" Katya shakes her head as she speaks. Fame snorts and looks up from where she is spinning her skate’s wheels idly.

“You’re the one showing the world how limber you are," Fame says. Katya is half-listening. Fame continues her talking, her words going in one ear and out the other.

“Her huge ass in that one-piece," Katya continues in a mumble, dragging a hand down her cheek and smudging up the sparse make-up on her face. "God almighty.”

“Go on up to her!" Fame says, emphasizing with a hard pat on the back of Katya's thigh. "I wanna see that smile of hers again. She's so pretty. I bet she's nice.”

The heavy metal door to the locker room on their side of the building shuts. Katya looks towards it to see Adore walking towards her and Fame. Katya scoffs upon seeing her rollerskates in hand and she points down at Adore's socked feet in a silent order to put them on. The girl rolls her eyes.

"Dolly shot her down earlier," Adore says, as if she knew exactly what they have been talking about. She sits down next to Fame on the bench, crosses her leg over her knee to lace up. Katya frowns. "She couldn’t even speak. I laughed my fucking ass off.”

“Watch me," Katya pushes Adore away by the face and the younger woman falls into Fame’s arms with a laugh.

Katya sidles towards ‘Dolly’ (Katya can only assume she is the skater who goes by Doll-Parts Parton) who is bent over by one of the away team's benches, strapping on yellow knee pads. They match the yellow elbow pads and wrist-guards she is already wearing. It is hopelessly cute. She wants to rip it all off of her. Katya skids to a stop about a foot away and clears her throat.

“You’re a familiar face,” Katya says. It appears to fall on deaf ears. Regardless, she inches closer and tilts her head as she looks down at the woman, studying the various, colorful patterns that cover her body.

The woman is wearing a helmet, unlike Katya. It is the same baby pink as her ugly car and covered with tiny red hearts. It looks hand-painted. The helmet squeezes out her uncountable blonde ringlet curls from every angle, her big hair piling up on her shoulders and rolling down her back.

Her helmet chin strap is unbuckled and the white pieces of plastic swing back and forth as she all of a sudden rises up from lacing her skates. What Katya didn’t notice under the parking lot’s lights, she is noticing under the roller rink's. The woman is taller than Katya. A good couple inches taller. If Katya didn’t have her own skates on, the woman would be even more so. It is both deeply infuriating and wildly thrilling.

Doll-Parts takes a moment, squinting her eyes as she looks all over Katya’s face. The woman smiles and recognition shows in her sweet, big brown eyes and it is enough to heat up Katya’s neck.

“You again,” She says with a smile. It is not unkind. “You trying to get in my head?”

The woman doesn’t sound like she is from around these parts. More Arkansas or Mississippi than Texas, and the endearing quality of it weighs heavy on Katya’s chest. Katya wants to ask her where she’s from, what her real name is. She wants to ask her so many questions. She doesn’t ask any of them.

“Trying to make an impression,” Katya settles on saying, after a moment. She sticks out her hand to shake, an excuse to feel the scratch of the yellow wrist-guard against her skin, masquerading as good sportsmanship. “Good luck, princess.”

The woman’s eyes, somehow so knowing without knowing anything about Katya, flicker between the extended hand and Katya’s face. She buckles her chin strap and adjusts it so that there is some slack, all the while smiling wide. She hasn’t stopped smiling.

“I won’t need it,” She says. Katya is speechless again. Doll-Parts does a loop around Katya in her skates, then twists her body half-around, pops up a shoulder and speaks over it. “See you on the track, good-looking.”

And she is gone, skating over to the stands to sign whatever the girls who came from her part of town have for her to autograph. Her movements are so breezy, so serene, like she was born with skates on her feet. Katya ponders what else comes this easy to the woman.

Katya lets her still-extended hand fall to her side and wills the growing roar of the amped-up crowd to drown out the laughter of her teammates from the bench. Twice in one night, she has been rejected by some blonde southern belle. She can’t wait to be rejected a third time.


End file.
